On August 14, 2011, I earned a private pilot certificate. While flying with my instructor I had experienced a clogged pitot tube, popped tire, nonfunctioning alternator, and communication failure, among other issues.
On August 2 at 10 a.m. I arrived at Boeing Field, dispatched the aircraft (a Diamond DA20), and began the preflight. This was to be a very simple flight—a little extra landing practice before heading out for my final solo cross-country. I walked outside to the airplane on the slightly overcast Seattle morning and ran through the preflight checklist.
Everything looked great as usual. Once inside I pulled the canopy shut and realized that I was once again alone.Everything was quiet; it was as if nothing existed aside from the airplane and me.
I took a deep breath before I continued down the list, as I knew it was essential to never rush through a preflight, especially when there was no one there to double-check my work. As I cleared the area, I primed the engine, turned the key, and that sound of the beautifully running engine reassured me. I relaxed, sat back in my booster seat, and found all of the engine gauges to be in the green.
I recorded the ATIS information, called Boeing Tower, and requested to stay in the pattern for touch and goes. I pulled out onto Runway 13L, eased in the power, and took off. It was that simple. Everything was great when I came around from crosswind to downwind, the radios were quiet, and I was completely focused.
The wind was calm as I touched down just slightly beyond the runway numbers. I added power once I was sure I had control on the ground and took off again, except this time something was different. The airplane did not sound normal as I left the ground. Initially I figured I was just anxious.
As I turned downwind that lingering feeling that something was strange grew much stronger. The engine sounded as if I was pulling the power out, as if I were on final about to fly over the numbers at the edge of the runway surface. The instrument panel was shaking much more than usual. Simultaneously I noticed a continuous rpm drop, and I could smell fuel. The instruments still were in the green, and nothing else seemed abnormal. The airplane was still flying; the engine had not stopped. I ran through my flow checks, and nothing was abnormal. Yet as pilot in command, I believed something was wrong. The tower had just cleared me for a second touch and go, but I responded with “Diamond Two-Four-Six-Eight-Delta needs to make this a full stop.” I did not declare an emergency, but I knew that I needed to get on the ground.
Despite the rough-running engine the airplane made it safely to the runway, and I taxied back to parking. I was calm as I recorded the 0.4 hours of time and locked up the airplane. I walked inside the airport as if nothing had happened. As soon as I saw my flight instructor standing behind the front desk, a rush of anxiety, panic, fear, and unknown feelings flowed through me as if the event had occurred right here, in the safety of the building and my instructor. After calming down, and speaking to both the instructor and the chief pilot, I was told that there was a clogged fuel injector—that typically it clears itself, but it was the cause of the trouble I experienced.
Even though the incident was minor, I was shaken up. I wanted to quit flying because I was stuck in this mindset of the unknown. What could have happened if I was away from the airport, or if the engine had failed? My solo cross-country was the next day, and I could not bear to think about going back up alone. Yet I was so close to finishing. I spoke with the chief pilot, who explained to me that situations like this only help to form people into pilots. My instructor made it clear that I was trained to handle situations like this.
Despite my lack of experience I managed to do the right thing, and it gave me the confidence to complete my solo cross-country the next day. We know a lot more than we give ourselves credit for, and it is important to trust our judgment.
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